


Resolutions to Keep

by Todaywearesoldiers



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hospitals, M/M, New Year's Kiss, New Years, Pre-Reichenbach, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-22 15:20:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17062235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todaywearesoldiers/pseuds/Todaywearesoldiers
Summary: It was John who suggested they get a tree. It was Sherlock who suggested they leave it up until after New Year's.Sherlock and John develop their relationship over the holiday season. Featuring trees, lights, New Year’s and plenty of candy canes.





	1. Chapter 1

“And that’s how I knew our man could be none other than Mr. Claus himself.”

It was late, almost past midnight, but John and Sherlock were walking the streets that never tired. Fueled only by John’s “fantastics” and “brilliants,” Sherlock detailed the deductions he had made to conclude the murder of mall owner Regis Thompson was committed by the Santa who had just been hired to take photos with children in the food court. All Sherlock needed was record of the recent changes in personnel before he was forcing Santa (actually named Yusuf Tekin) to confess to being hired by the owner’s wife to stage her husband's death and collect the insurance money.

Afterwards, they walked in a companionable silence, looking at the sidewalks where watchers of a Christmas parade had lunged for candy a few hours before. Occasionally, the two would bump shoulders or brush arms, but they mentally blamed it on their tired state rather than acknowledge the comfort they felt by the brief touches. The only time they separated fully was when they passed an unclaimed candy cane and Sherlock bowed to pick it up.

“That’s disgusting,” John warned.

“It’s wrapped in plastic.”

“Still, it’s been here for a while.”

John knew logically that the candy was uncontaminated but something about picking food off the streets of London made him uneasy. Nonetheless, Sherlock unwrapped the candy cane but left some plastic along the bottom to hold it without touching the candy. Starting near his fingers, he licked from the base up and followed the curve at the top. Either time slowed in John’s perception or Sherlock performed this act in slow motion.

John attempted to move the conversation back to the case and take his mind off his best friend’s tongue. “I can’t believe we arrested Santa. I take it we aren’t making the nice list this year?” 

“Not if I can help it.” Sherlock smirked, sliding his lips along the candy cane and pulling it out again with a pop. John both hated and loved that noise.

 

* * *

 

It was John who suggested they get a tree. He presented the reasons to Sherlock that went as follows: 1) It would liven up the place and make it feel warmer. 2) Some holiday spirit might even help clients open up while detailing their cases. 3) C'mon Sherlock, it's just a tree.

Sherlock of course had a conflicting answer to every one of John’s suggestions. It would ruin the dusting, he said. The last thing we need is for clients to give more useless information, John. In the end, they got a tree.

In actuality, there was no “they” to the ordeal. Sherlock rushed out on some lead one day, and John went to the store for groceries but ended up with a tree instead. He picked one of the smallest in the bunch, thin but tall, not wanting to crowd the living room or lug a massive tree back to the flat alone. After managing to make it up the stairs to the flat, he realized Sherlock was still away and took the opportunity to go to the store for ornaments and lights. As a result, he set the tree up in a hurry, leaving it leaning and skewed in its stand.

When he returned an hour later, he found Sherlock lying on the sofa and the tree immaculately placed near the fireplace. It was so straight, he swore Sherlock had to have used a level. A tape measure still sat on the mantle from when Sherlock measured the distance between the fireplace and the wall, making sure the tree sat exactly in the middle.

John, always much more observant than he was given credit for, noticed the work that Sherlock would never admit. “Thank you.”

“Hmm?”

“For setting up the tree.”

“I was worried you might leave it the way it was. Bad enough that you put a scratch in the floor moving it in here.”

John looked down at the hardwood beneath his feet. Marks and chips graced every square foot of the flooring. “A pity,” he said under his breath while unpacking the decorations he had bought for the tree.

The problem with buying a tree so late is that most of the ornaments are already sold out, and the stores have no intention of restocking. John managed to find one box of bulbs behind a nutcracker display, but the rest of the tree would have to go bare unless he found another solution. Luckily, the store was stocked with every flavor of candy cane imaginable. John grinned to himself as he loaded the cart.

A few hours later, John was nearly finished with the tree and moving to the last of the candy canes when he noticed the entire box was missing. He had never heard Sherlock move from the sofa, but when he turned around, Sherlock was lying on his back with five candy canes in his mouth at once.

“Sherlock! You’re going to choke. One at a time, aye?”

Sherlock didn’t reply (maybe because his mouth was full), but he did move to a sitting position.

John tried again. “You’re wasting them. There’s no way you need that many at once.”

“And what? Decorating a tree is a better use for them?” 

"I could think of better uses for you," John muttered.

"Such as?" Sherlock said as he rose from the sofa and moved closer to John. He chose one of the five candy canes to continue sucking on and let it hang on the edge of his mouth like the experienced cigarette smoker he was at one time. 

When John couldn't provide an answer, Sherlock stepped closer still and dramatized his height. John knew he was shorter, but he used every inch of his height with efficiency. He straightened his shoulders and lengthened his neck, looking up at Sherlock, but bringing him down to his level with the intensity in his eyes.

"Like getting the bare spots at the top." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but placed an unused candy cane on one of the top branches. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock secretly chose to play his violin close to the tree. As a child, he always had fake trees as real ones leave firs on the carpet that his mother fussed about for an entire holiday season once before Sherlock was born. Mycroft told the story to him one Christmas Eve, about how he woke up one morning and the tree he had spent hours picking out had just disappeared. It was replaced by a brand new false pine and extra presents for little Mycroft.

Therefore, this tree brought a new aspect to the holidays. Although he wouldn’t admit it, even to himself, he loved the smell. The scent of pine took him back to the yard he played in as a child and filled him with warmth. For the first time, he realized John’s cologne had hints of pine. 

At night, John would make them both a cup of tea while Sherlock played his violin, hardly acknowledging John for hours. John was used to this and was content with watching Sherlock from the sofa, backlit from the colored Christmas lights that reflected off the shine of his hair and swaying slightly with the rhythm of the music. Sometimes, often unaware of his song choice, Sherlock would play Christmas music. It was in these moments that John thanked himself for buying the tree, even if he did spend days removing sap from his clothing.

 

* * *

 

Crimes were just as plentiful and malicious during the holidays but solving them was much more festive. On this night, the consulting detective and his doctor found themselves in an upper-class neighborhood where each house donned expensive light displays but were also the most likely place for their alleged robber to make his next move.

Admittedly, the robber did not take much of value, and Sherlock normally would give it a 2, but the case had gone from “not Lestrade’s division” to “Lestrade’s division” when a few victims became hospitalized. Within minutes of looking at one of the houses, Sherlock cleared the scene of all remaining officers, knowing the vents had been rigged to emit toxic fumes. Bad news for the families, fantastic news for the gunshot ridden walls of 221B.

“Maybe we should put lights on the door of the flat,” John suggested, sitting beside Sherlock on a green metal park bench that insinuated the cold of the night.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes, trying to refocus his vision on the people around him instead of on the lights. “I knew it was a bad idea to bring you here.”

John moved on without comment. “The tree really did liven up the place. Lights at the entrance would too. And it would make it easier to get the key in the door late at night.”

Sherlock refrained from telling John that his inability to connect the key to the hole was not from the darkness but from his deteriorating eyesight in his older age. After all, Sherlock had no issues with unlocking the door. Instead, he replied, “The flat is where I run my business, not a suburban family home.”

“Yes, well the flat is  _my_ family home, not just your consulting offices.”

“Family?” Sherlock asked to no one in particular. He tried to define the word in the context of John’s life. No wife or children. No contact with his sister. Sherlock even noted that John had abandoned dating as he no longer shaved before going to the supermarket, a habit he engaged in subconsciously.

Before he could formulate a question, John was on his feet and chasing the alleged robber who threw up his hands in submission without a fight. Sherlock handed John the handcuffs he had taken from Anderson’s desk.

“Go ahead. You can’t prove anything against me,” the accused claimed.

“Nothing except five counts of,” Sherlock paused to take a pistol from the inside of the man’s coat, “armed robbery.” He pulled back the coat further. “And wearing a Christmas jumper this hideous has to be a crime.”

John snickered and patted Sherlock’s back as he pulled out his phone to call the Yard.

Maybe they were one in the same, solving crimes and home.


	2. Chapter 2

Later, John would write in his blog that the worst sound to hear upon waking up is a heart monitor. He won’t write about his disappointment upon finding his flatmate had went home a few hours ago or about the guilt he felt for being angry. After all, the case was far from finished, and Sherlock would never postpone investigating a lead to sit bedside with an unconscious John.

The time he spent waiting for the doctor’s discharge did give him enough time to piece together the events that had led him to this point. A few years ago, he ran into his old friend Mike Stamford. Stamford introduced him to a man who claimed to be the world’s only consulting detective. John had shot a man that night, but he did not think about that detail as much as the others. For instance, he had dinner that evening during which John had tried and failed to establish a much more intimate relationship with his new acquaintance. John thought about this bit often.

He accepted his luck and the offer in regards to the other room at 221B. Since then, John has laid down his life for the detective and would again with no hesitation. He’d even follow him on a case and get his head smashed by a deranged criminal with a baseball bat which, as he now knew from experience, would lead to the hospital bed where he currently lay.

But he would also sit on the sofa and watch his flatmate sway gently with the song resonating from his violin. He would bring them Chinese on Wednesday nights that they'd share in front of the telly. He would sit beside him in a cab and laugh about stolen ashtrays until his stomach hurt. 

He had never been more in love.

John’s therapist used to encourage him to accept the facts, so John accepted that he was in love with Sherlock a few months after moving in. With that fact came a much more unpleasant one: Sherlock was married to his work and therefore untouchable both emotionally and physically.

For John, the latter fact was harder to accept. There were so many times that Sherlock seemed so approachable, so _human_ , that John almost reached out to stroke his cheek or take his hand. When Sherlock crowded over him as he did so often, he could almost swear Sherlock was waiting for John to pull him closer to meet at the lips. 

Sometimes, John would forget the facts. After a particularly engaging case, he would rub Sherlock’s back, squeeze his shoulders or be too loose lipped in praise. John would dwell on these moments but decide they were probably just interpreted as brotherly gestures. He almost wished Sherlock knew the truth instead.

John re-centered himself. Case. Running. Baseball bat. Hospital bed. Louder than normal heart monitor. No Sherlock. Nurse is back. Is this the same one? Very nice blue eyes.

“The doctor should be by within the next half hour or so.” The nurse offered an apologetic smile. “Can I get you anything in the meantime?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

They nodded at each other in finality, but the nurse lingered.

“That’s a good friend you have, aye?” She stressed the word “friend” as if she was unsure if it was the correct wordage.

“Sherlock? Yea, I guess he can be.”

“The paramedics said he fussed about you for ages. Nothing they did was right according to him.” She sort of laughed as she said this, and John laughed along, not sure what he was laughing at.

She continued, “They eventually had to ask him to leave. He came straight here, and demanded to see the doctor, but he left when he saw you. It’s lucky he was with you and kept you warm like he did. Otherwise, you might have-"

“You’re awake,” interrupted the authoritative voice in the doorway.

John couldn’t help but grin at the sound. Sherlock smiled back, the shy one he reserved only for John. The nurse left the room without further comment, but Sherlock glared at her anyway.

“How’s the head?”

“Bloody awful. Thanks for asking.”

“I brought you these.” Sherlock placed a duffle at the foot of the bed and pulled out fresh clothes from John’s closet.

“What were wrong with mine?”

Sherlock touched his own head and John mirrored, feeling a bandage at his hairline.

“Head wounds, you know what a mess they are,” Sherlock pretended to make light of the situation, but John could sense the unease in his tone.

John tried to play along. “I heard you weren’t exactly easy to work with when the paramedics arrived.”

“It’s not my fault the only doctor I trust was also the patient.”

“Is my concussion making me imagine things, or is Sherlock Holmes being nice to me?”

The doctor arrived before Sherlock could reply.

 

* * *

 

Finally in the cab, Sherlock drummed his fingers on his knee and leaned against the door.

“You alright?” John asked.

Sherlock either didn’t hear John or ignored him, because he continued to stare expressionless out the window, tapping his fingers in a steadily increasing tempo.

John looked at his own hands, folded gently in his lap and back to the one jittering next to him. He reached out and covered Sherlock’s much colder hand with his own. Sherlock snapped his head forward to look at the hands on his knee.

Embarrassed, John brought his hand back to his lap. “Everything, alright?”

“Yes, yes fine.”

“Solve the case?”

“Yep.”

Giving up on the attempt to ignite a conversation, John turned to his own window when he saw 221B coming into view.

He squinted. “What’s that?”

“Those are Christmas lights, John. Are you sure the doctor said you could leave?”

“You did this?” John got out of the cab and stepped forward to better see the lights outlining the door. They were colored, almost perfectly matching the tree and stood out in a harsh contrast against the black lacquer of the front door. He thought of the way the lights of the tree shone off the silk of Sherlock’s hair and wished for the sound of a violin without the pain of a headache.

“Yes, but I also gave you a concussion, eight stitches and a most likely permanent scar,” Sherlock said when he joined John by the door.

John placed his hand on the bandage. He hadn’t thought about the scar.

“But you will still look very…nice,” recovered Sherlock as he attempted to reassure John.

John shrugged away the thought. “None of that was your fault, but I really appreciate all of this anyway.” He gestured to his clothes and the lights.

Sherlock nodded and moved to open the door, but it swung open before he grasped the knob.

“Oh, John.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head at the sight of the bandage. “I was worried when Sherlock came home asking for Christmas lights, but I was _really_ worried when he said you were in the hospital. I told him he better start taking care of you because friends are all we have in the end, you know. Then he grabbed the lights and ran off before I could ask if you were okay.”

“I’m fine, really I am. We’ve both had worse.”

“Well, don’t start making it into a competition. You two boys get into enough trouble as it is.”

Sherlock stepped closer to John and put an arm around his shoulders to which John stiffened at the unnaturalness of the touch. “Mrs. Hudson, if you would excuse us, we have a concussion to attend to, and I’m sure John would like to get some rest.”

“Oh, yes. Of course, dear.” She moved out of the doorway and the two began to climb the stairs to the flat when Mrs. Hudson took John’s arm. “Before you go. I’m having a little get together tomorrow with some of the ladies around town for Christmas, and I would love it if you'd come.”

“Christmas? Tomorrow?” John looked at his watch.

“It’s the 24th, dear. I’d love it if you both stopped by. My sister and my niece will be there and they’re both big fans of the blog. Of course, unless you have other plans for Christmas.”

John looked to Sherlock who had set his jaw and was tapping his foot against the hardwood floors. He tilted his head at John and tried to beg without looking too desperate.

“We’ll be there,” John promised, and watched as Sherlock failed to conceal a disappointed sigh. Even John, by far the least observant of the pair, was able to notice that Sherlock trudged up the stairs louder than normal. He winked at Mrs. Hudson who was still holding his arm and listening to Sherlock’s ascent.

There’s no two people in the world he’d rather spend Christmas with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/19/18 Okay, I know I said this was going to be a short, two-chapter fic, but this one was getting a bit lengthy, so I decided to split it. Chapter 3 will be here shortly and will bring Christmas and New Year's with it. In the meantime, thank you to all who have read and left kudos and comments!


	3. Chapter 3

“It’s Christmas. Have _mercy_ , John.” The two of them had gone through this conversation twice already today. Sherlock would beg, John would insist upon going to Mrs. Hudson’s lunch and Sherlock would protest in silence. Now, Sherlock was lying on his back on the sofa with the Union Jack throw pillow covering his face.

“You’re right, it is Christmas. That’s why we’re going to go downstairs and visit with others celebrating the holiday. Besides, we already promised Mrs. Hudson we would at least make an appearance.”

He sat up and fluffed his hair. “No, _you_ promised. I had nothing to do with this.” Lowering an accusatory finger from John to his phone, he raised an invisible barrier between him and the conversation, but John decided to press further.

“Look, we’ll just go downstairs, say a few hellos, and..."

 “This has nothing to do with the photos Mrs. Hudson was tagged in with her niece?”

“What? Of course not.”

“You liked them,” he groaned and turned the screen to John.

“You don’t even have a Facebook.”

“Yes, I do. I have twelve. Just none with my name. You accepted a friend request from all of them.”

John made a mental note to clean out his friends’ list. “Just come with me. Please? We can leave whenever you start feeling uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable? I don’t get uncomfortable in social situations.”

The two looked at each other in silence for a moment, John with knowing eyes and raised brows, Sherlock in denial.

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed, stepping over the coffee table and fixing his hair in the mirror above the fireplace.

“You look great,” John said, handing Sherlock his suit jacket. “Like Christmas morning.” When Sherlock rolled his eyes, John could not help but grin in amusement.

“Shut up,” Sherlock ordered, ripping the suit jacket from John’s hands. He looked back into the mirror and tried to ignore the blush forming in his cheeks.

 

* * *

 

“And this is my sister Marge and my niece Erika.” Mrs. Hudson was finishing introducing John and Sherlock to the rest of the party who had arrived last on account of Sherlock's tantrums. 

“Yes, of course. We’ve heard a lot about you both,” John assured them.

Sherlock looked at John in confusion. “We have?”

Thanks to the experience of gained in other social situations, John had learned it is best to silence Sherlock and explain later at the risk of offending the third party. As such, John placed a sharp elbow in Sherlock’s ribs. Luckily, Marge and Erika seemed to not notice his comment.

“Good things, I hope,” Erika giggled in between words. “We’re big fans of the blog.” She smiled, flashing John teeth in a meticulously constructed organization.  

“Orthodontist. Dull,” Sherlock muttered.

On the other hand, John could not have been more intrigued with Erika. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

Disappointment flowed through him when their brief conversation had been interrupted by dishes being placed on the table and everyone taking their seats. John reached for a chair next to another empty seat, leaving a spot for Sherlock, but when he glanced around the room, the detective was nowhere to be found. Another well-manicured hand rested on the back of the chair beside him.

“This taken?” Erika asked, once again using her smile to her advantage. John was more than happy to pull out the chair for her.

They smiled at each other for a moment before their attentions were diverted to the kitchen.

“Young man, you put that back!” Mrs. Hudson could not be seen from the dining room, only heard. “Eat the food first, then you can have as many sweets as your tiny body can hold.”

A disgruntled Sherlock emerged from the kitchen, powdered sugar on his black jacket. The other conversations had resumed, but John was still focused on the kitchen and laughed as he locked eyes with the consulting detective defeated by a land lady with a spatula. His smile fell when the expression on Sherlock’s face filled with anger at the sight of the seat beside John being occupied.

Settling for the only chair left, Sherlock slouched slightly in his seat but pretended to be unbothered. Only John, hyperaware of Sherlock’s impeccable posture and manners could notice a difference.

When the food was set, John allowed himself to relax and be convinced that he was under no responsibility to Sherlock. At the present, his only concern was being involved in the conversation. He told himself it was Christmas spirit, not an attempt to better know Erika.  

John felt a firm but brief tap against his foot from under the table. He looked up from his mashed potatoes to Sherlock who raised his eyebrows and nudged his head towards the door.

Conflicting emotions filled John as he remembered their agreement. “Now?” He mouthed and motioned to his plate full of food.

Sherlock replied with a sigh and slumped shoulders.

“So Erika,” John said louder than necessary while keeping eye contact with Sherlock, “I hear you’re a dentist?”

“Orthodontist actually,” she corrected.

“Obviously,” Sherlock reminded John of his prior deduction.

John continued. “So, you like it then?”

“Do any of us really like our jobs?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock without being asked.

“That’s a good point. Do I need braces?” John showed her his teeth jokingly, earning a laugh from Erika.

“I can’t tell by looking, sorry.”

“How do I get a more thorough consultation?” This time, Erika laughed _and_ blushed.  

John felt a buzzing from his phone.

“You promised -SH,” the screen read.

“It’s Christmas, Sherlock. Try to make some friends,” John typed back.

“I have one. -SH”

“One.”

Since Sherlock didn’t bother replying, John once again devoted his attention to Erika and the small talk between them. Once or twice he heard others at the table attempting to include Sherlock in their conversations, but he would only reply with one or two-word answers, more for their sake than his own.

When the table had finished their meals, they sat longer while finishing their drinks and points of conversation and eating what little desserts their stomachs could hold. What cookies and treats they could not eat, Sherlock made up for with his unsatisfiable sweet tooth.

“And um…you have a family? I mean, a husband? Kids?” John finally gained the nerve to ask.

Before she could answer, Sherlock rose from the table, taking two cookies as he left. “Mrs. Hudson, it was lovely, but I must be off.”

“Oh, Sherlock. Do you have to leave so soon?”

“Afraid so.” He gave her a gentle smile and a peck on the cheek before he vanished from the room.

John averted his eyes from the closing door to his phone that now lie on the table and felt a pang of guilt in his chest. He  _had_ promised to leave with Sherlock, together and not separately. He tried to laugh along with the jokes, but he was the first to finish his drink and made an awkward excuse before leaving and taking the stairs two at a time.

He stood at the door and felt lost in front of his own home. Erika had answered his question, but he did not remember her answer. He had barely said goodbye to her before leaving the party. Surely if she was unattached and interested, she would find him on Facebook. Surely he should care more if she did.

When he opened the door, he found Sherlock sitting with legs curled into his chair, hands steepled under his chin and eyes locked on the laptop screen before him.

John crossed the room and picked up Sherlock’s violin. He took a moment to turn it over in his hands and felt strange holding something that he had considered an extension of Sherlock. He felt something within him similar to gratitude for the violin and what it had given him.

“Play something for me,” he requested.

“Can’t. Case.” Sherlock gestured to the laptop on his lap.

“Oh, right. ‘He was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Sherlock Scrooge Holmes.’”

“Scrooge? My middle name is Sherlock Scott.”

“ _A Christmas Carol_? Charles Dickens?”

“Honestly, John. What are you on about?”

“You know what? I shouldn’t be surprised.” Violin still in hand, John turned to the window and watched the Christmas traffic in the streets. “How about this? As a Christmas present to each other, you play something for me and I’ll read some of  _A Christmas Carol_  to you. I played Tiny Tim in community theatre as a boy. I was told I was quite good.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a sight John was becoming used to seeing. “I’m not a child, John.”

“But you love it when I read to you. C’mon, now. I can’t be late for London’s finest violin concerto.”

Behind him, Sherlock smirked and arose from his chair, crossing to John in one long stride. “No, you can’t be. Especially if you’re playing in it.”

John began to turn around in confusion, but Sherlock rested his hands on his shoulders to keep John facing away from him. When John stilled, Sherlock put one hand over John’s where it rested on the neck of the violin and brought the body of it to John’s shoulder. Sherlock pressed his chest to the expanse of John’s back to better see the fingerboard.

Upon feeling the heat of Sherlock’s body, John’s breath hitched in his chest.

“Although the violin is a string instrument, it’s still important to breathe while playing it,” Sherlock whispered to John, his own breath grazing the doctor’s ear.

Letting out a shaky breath, John placed his chin on the chin rest before him. Sherlock brought the bow to the strings and demonstrated how to properly hold it and produce a sound. John giggled within learning two notes, realizing Sherlock was teaching him the chorus to Jingle Bells.

Sherlock felt John’s laughter resonate throughout his body and struggled to maintain concentration. No sound he could produce from this instrument could properly express how much he longed to hold John like this in a different context, without the guise of violin lessons.

“Alright, that’s enough.” John stepped away from Sherlock’s embrace and returned the violin to its master.

“You have potential.”

“I’ll leave the instrumental expertise to you.”

“And I’ll leave the storytelling to you. What is it you said we’re hearing tonight?”

John pulled out his phone and typed a few words. “Alright, here it is. Sit down.”

They sat in their respective chairs with feet intertwined and only the fire, Christmas lights and John’s screen illuminating the room.

“Marley was dead: to begin with.”

“I love it already,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Shut up!” John said with laughter. A candy cane flew through the air and bounced off Sherlock’s face. This time, Sherlock tried to ignore the blush forming in John’s cheeks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming soon: The New Year's chapter...


	4. Chapter 4

The days following Christmas were filled with gifts a plenty for Sherlock. Bomb threats. Blackmailing. Bodies disappearing from the morgue. Oh, it was Christmas indeed.

One night, John and Sherlock came home from running the streets of London and realized they both were too full of adrenaline to retire to their beds. Without speaking any words between them, Sherlock took the Stradivarius from its perch on the windowsill. He offered it to John who giggled and shook his head. Sherlock shrugged while bringing the violin to his shoulder and improvised a piece to relax them both.

When Sherlock tired of playing, he joined John on the couch and took his laptop from where it sat on the coffee table. They sat in silence, Sherlock staring at the screen and John at the spot where Sherlock had stood in front of the tree.

“Suppose I should take it down soon,” the latter said through the silence.

“Hmm?” Sherlock replied, still looking at his laptop.

“The tree.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s face fell as he moved his eyes from the screen to the tree.

“Unless of course-"

“New Year’s. After New Year’s.”

They both fell asleep on the sofa that night, Sherlock after John. He studied John’s movements, the way his breath filled his chest and the way the lights from the tree made his skin glow. After much debate and with a few deliberate changes to their positioning, Sherlock finally fell asleep with his head on John’s chest and hoped he made it look like an accident.

On some nights, Sherlock would receive a lead and consider it necessary to investigate without delay. Rarely would Sherlock shake him awake as a result of a night when John was particularly exhausted and hit him so hard with a pillow upon entering his bedroom that Sherlock was knocked to the floor.

Therefore, when John stumbled to the kitchen the morning of December 31, he was not surprised to find Sherlock absent from the flat. He spent the day typing up the cases from the week and subconsciously glancing at the door.

Finally, around 5 PM, John texted a simple “where are you” to Sherlock’s number. By 6:00, he hadn’t received an answer and became more frustrated every time he checked his phone.

In the streets below, he could hear people making their way to New Year’s Eve parties. John longed to be a part of those people, to have a life that didn’t revolve around the man who wouldn’t answer his phone. He stood and went to his room, making the decision to become one of those people.

Letting a sigh escape his lips, he began sorting through his clothes to find something appropriate for the night. He put on a shirt he had bought during a holiday sale and tried to pretend he wasn’t influenced by Sherlock’s compliment of the it a few days ago. His best pair of shoes were selected from the back of the closet and he dusted them with the t-shirt he had worn earlier.

With no plan in mind, he descended the stairs from his room and tried to think of a bar that would not be entirely awkward to visit alone on New Year’s Eve.  He was mumbling out loud to himself about needing a girlfriend when a dark silhouette in the kitchen caused him to jump in alarm before realizing to whom it belonged.

“John,” Sherlock said when he heard his flatmate’s footsteps stop. He had his back turned and was emptying shopping bags full of junk food and alcohol and cheap paper hats with the upcoming year printed on them. He placed two bottles, one wine and one champagne, on the counter with an authoritative bang. John didn’t recognize the brand but assumed it was out of his price range.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

“It’s New Year’s Eve.”

“Yes, I’ve gathered that. Are you expecting people over?”

“Actually, I was rather hoping-” Sherlock twirled towards John on the toe of his foot but stopped abruptly upon scanning John’s clothes. “Oh.”

“What?”

“You have plans.”

Pursing his lips, John considered his options. “Nope. Don’t have plans.”

“Yes, you do. You never wear those shoes unless-"

“No, Sherlock. I don’t have plans.” He grasped Sherlock at his elbows and ducked so his face was in line of the detective’s sight, not his shoes. “Now, why don’t you tell me what yours are?”

Sherlock waved his hand along the bottles and junk food like a magician revealing his final illusion. “I was rather hoping you would like to spend New Year’s here. With me.”

“I would.”

Studying John’s face for traces of a lie, Sherlock revealed no emotion of his own. Finally, his mouth opened into a grin. “Good. Quite good.” He paused and rocked back on his heels, looking over his loot. “Oh, one more thing.”

The plastic bags rustled against each other as Sherlock pulled out a long rectangular box.

“Cluedo?”

“Since I threw the last board into the fire,” he said, bouncing with pride.

“And you’ll play by the rules this time?”

Sherlock stopped bouncing and relented through gritted teeth. “Yes.”

The two rearranged the living room to better suit their plans for the night. They played Cluedo and agreed that the loser had to wear the all paper hats at once for the entirety of the night. Sherlock did not play by the rules and eventually neither did John. In the end, they agreed to both wear one hat. The TV in the corner prevented any silence as it played reruns of the parade and showed coverage of the events happening around town. John praised himself for being absent to all of them.

“Oh!” Sherlock exclaimed, leaping from his perch in the chair. “I almost forgot. I have a last-minute present for you.” He disappeared from the living room and John grimaced as he heard a commotion coming from Sherlock’s room. He hoped the mess was contained, not something he would have to worry himself with later.

Sherlock reemerged with a black trunk adorned with a brass lock and decorative garnishes that caught the blaze of the fire in their shine. The lock hung open and Sherlock discarded it behind him. He paused for a moment, hand resting on the lid before tossing it back.

John leaned forward with great caution. He half expected something to jump out of the trunk. Instead, he found stacks of paper and used journals. Grabbing a black leather-bound journal from the top, he opened it and recognized the handwriting in an instant. Except these words were written with a less confident hand and appeared younger than the letters he knew.

“Are these…” John trailed off, reading the words in a hurry and attempting to make sense of the context.

“Accounts of my old cases. The ones before you came along. You’re always asking about them, so I had Mycroft grab this when he went to visit my parents. I thought you might like to read some and use them in your blog.”

“And you’re okay with it?”

“Sure, what use are they to me except to dwell on my past stupidity?”

John chose another journal. When he opened it, a photo fell to the floor of a teenaged Sherlock with another boy of his age. “Who’s this?”

Sherlock looked at the photo even though he was well aware of what it showed. With closed lips, he smiled at the boys he held in his hand. “Class A example.” He slung it forward and it fluttered to the ground between the two of them.

John picked up the photo but knew the subject was closed. “So where should I start?” He asked, bringing the champagne glass to his lips.

“Well, what is your blog lacking? Serial murderers? Stolen jewels?” He leaned forward towards John and brought his voice to a whisper. “Vampires?”

“Okay, now I know you’re joking.”

“It wasn’t a joke to Robert Ferguson who found his son in the arms of his wife while she was sucking blood from the baby’s neck.”

“Surely she was deranged.”

Sherlock gestured to the trunk. “Perhaps you should find out.”

Taking Sherlock’s glass and his own, John arose from his position on the floor and went to the kitchen to refill their drinks. “Let me hear it from you.”

Selecting one of the few candy canes left on the tree, Sherlock collapsed into his chair and lowered his eyebrows, struggling to remember the details of a case solved decades ago. “Mr. Ferguson had a son with his first wife and then remarried fifteen years later after her death. His second wife gave birth to another son to which the eldest was immensely jealous. Thanks to Mycroft, I had become rather an expert on recognizing sibling jealousy.” He had intended to complete the story but John interrupted with his own theory. 

“Poison,” said John with certainty. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Poison. The baby was poisoned. The mother was sucking out the poison when her husband found her.”

Sherlock did not reply for a moment, only smirked and traced the candy cane with his tongue. “Excellent, doctor. Perhaps I needed a medical man all along.”

John's chest swelled with pride as he sat on the floor to find another case. Only a few words into a journal, he closed it and stood again to retrieve the glass he had placed on Sherlock's side table. “But wait, why didn’t she tell Ferguson about his son poisoning the baby? And how did he come about the poison?”

“Well, if you’re such the expert…” Sherlock waved his hand and put the candy cane back into his mouth.

John looped his finger through the curve in the candy cane and pulled it from Sherlock’s lips. He slid his mouth along its entirety and pulled it out again, making sure to exaggerate the popping sound as he had seen Sherlock do so often. “What good would you be then?” he asked, passing the candy cane back to Sherlock.

For hours, they sat on the floor in front of the fireplace while Sherlock would explain his prior cases and John would interject with questions and praises. The conversation only ceased when John went to get blankets and pillows to make the floor more comfortable.

“There’s one thing you haven’t explained.”

“By all means, doctor.”

“Why do you like New Year’s?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“It was like pulling teeth to convince you to put a Christmas tree up.”

“To be fair, I never did agree to the Christmas tree, but it did grow on me.”

“But you bought us paper hats and champagne today.”

“New Year’s is intriguing thanks to the ones who celebrate it. People change, even just for a few days, all because the Earth went around the sun. Makes life more unpredictable for a while.”

John reminded himself to update his readers about Sherlock’s ever growing knowledge of the solar system. “What about you? Do you have any resolutions?”

“Just the one.” He leaned closer to John, his voice a near whisper. Outside, the voices of people in the streets increased in volume. The clock read 11:59.

John felt dizzy but couldn’t focus to count the drinks he had made. “What’s that then?”

Sherlock placed a hand on John’s inner thigh. “Happy New Year, John.”

It was John who closed the space between their lips. It was Sherlock who suggested he stay longer.

They moved without a destination in mind, inhaling each other with all their senses. They thought of no one else but knew this is how the act was supposed to feel.

After a moment of entangling limbs and trading places, they landed parallel to the fireplace, Sherlock behind John with his arm draped across the man’s waist.

He placed his lips to John’s neck with gentle hesitation. “John, in the morning. Will you keep me? Or am I just a meaningless resolution?”

“Ask me again next New Year’s.” John replied, turning on his other side to pull Sherlock into another kiss.

When the kisses grew sloppier and they had both had two more drinks, John fell asleep in the living room for the second time this week. The difference was that this instance was intentional, and he was awake to pull Sherlock closer when he shifted to rest his head on top of John’s chest. Sherlock lied there for quite some time, listening to the breath that filled the man he loved.

For a moment, Sherlock left John lying on their makeshift palate on the floor and moved without sound to the tree. He rustled in his pocket for his folding knife and cut off a small portion of a branch. From behind the tree, he took another black leather-bound journal from the bookshelf, this one empty except for the pages where he intended to write of the instances mostly recounted above. Between the front cover and the first page, he pressed the branch and returned the journal to the shelf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! As always thank you to all who have read and commented on my fanfics so far. You inspire me to keep trying.
> 
> The vampire case is "The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire."


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